03 - Sagittarius is Bleeding (27 page)

Maybe. Maybe not. Kat was determined to show Starbuck up, and to prove that
she, Kat, was the best fighter pilot in the squad. But to show someone up, that
person had to be around to
be
shown up. If Kat got Starbuck grounded
somehow, then how would she, Kat, have the opportunity to prove to everyone that she had the
goods and Starbuck didn’t?

So it probably wasn’t Kat.

Lee, maybe? Nah. If Lee had a bone to pick with her about drinking, or about
anything, then he would just face her and tell her, not rat her out to his
father. That just wasn’t his style.

As she knocked on Adama’s door, she came to the conclusion that she had
nothing to worry about. He probably wanted to talk about duty rosters, or
perhaps he had an assignment for her. But she hated the fact that she had such a
checkered history that she felt compelled to run through an entire litany of
possible negatives before she could finally decide that she had nothing to be
concerned about. It made her think about the times that Tigh would look her in
the face and practically snarl at her, “You’re a screw-up, Thrace, and that’s
all you’ll ever be.” At which point she’d punched him and, well… that’s when
the fun usually started.

“Come,” called Adama and she entered with no indication of anything in her
mind other than being ready, willing and able to serve in whatever capacity she
was required. Adama was leaning against his desk, sipping a cup of coffee, and
he gestured for her to sit. She did so, folded her hands in her lap, and waited.
She didn’t have to wait very long. “I have a job for you,” he said.

“Anything, Admiral,” she replied. Outwardly her demeanor didn’t change;
inwardly she breathed a sigh of relief that her hyperactive imagination had been
off base. Her inner big-mouth urged her to ask if she was going to be required
to assassinate anyone this go-around, but she wisely managed to keep silent.

“Boxey is currently in residence on the transport
Bifrost.
I need you
to go there and bring him back.”

That surprised her. “How did he wind up on the
Bifrost?”

“The Midguardians have apparently taken him under their wing.”

“I see,” said Kara, who didn’t. “And may I ask why we need him brought back
here? I mean, with all respect, Tigh had me give him the heave-ho from
Galactica.
He wasn’t happy about leaving and I wasn’t thrilled about sending
him. So…?”

Adama stared at her for a long moment, and she instinctively knew what was
going through his mind: He was trying to decide whether to answer her question
or not. Something was going on with Boxey that was obviously on a need-to-know
basis, and he was endeavoring to determine whether she needed to know or not…

That was when it hit her like a lightning bolt. Her eyes widened and before
Adama could speak, she said, “This isn’t about the thing with him being a Cylon,
is it? What, did Baltar change his mind?”

Adama was a hard individual to provoke a visible reaction from, and there
were probably two people on
Galactica
who could accomplish it with
facility. One was Lee Adama, and the other was looking at him at that moment. He
blinked in surprise, and then looked wearily amused. “I should have known you’d
figure it out,” he sighed.

“I don’t believe it,” Kara said firmly. “I don’t. Baltar’s up to something.
The man’s a born liar.”

“Really. I didn’t think you knew him that well.”

She flinched involuntarily at that, and she was sure that Adama had caught
the subtle but telling reaction. Not a damned thing slipped past him. Covering
as quickly as she could, she said, “I’ve played poker with him.”

“I see.” The words hung there, and Kara was certain that she was being
paranoid. Was there any possible way that Adama could tell—from that slightest
of exchanges—that she’d had a drunken one-night stand with the then future vice president? It was one
of the most ill-advised encounters she’d ever experienced, attributable partly
to liquor and partly to morbid curiosity over whether mental prowess translated
to… other types of prowess. The encounter had been something of a
disappointment, and even now she and Baltar endeavored to look in other
directions when they chanced to cross each other’s paths.

Adama continued to study her with his dissecting stare, and then said, “Then
I guess you would know. The question then becomes, why would he lie about it?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

“Neither do I,” Adama said. “So it’s better to be safe than sorry, don’t you
agree?”

“Yes sir,” Kara said without hesitation. “I assume you want me to go in
presenting a friendly face. It’s better to have me going in as a friend than
storm the place with marines trying to force them to turn him over to us.”

“Infinitely better,” said Adama.

“You want me to go over there, tell him we miss him over here, tell him I
talked to you and you’ve relented on him hanging out with us, and he’ll return
with me… at which point he gets tossed in a cell and poked and prodded all
over again.”

“Yes.”

Kara kept her face carefully neutral. Inwardly, she was recoiling at the
entire prospect, and there was a deep, burning rage building within her that was
directed entirely at Baltar. But Adama didn’t need her outrage at that moment.
He needed her cooperation, and he needed her level head. Since she was at her
most focused when she was behind the weapons console of a Viper, she pretended
that was where she was. Mentally she conjured up a vista of space before her,
and coming toward her was a Cylon raider. Except instead of the standard Cylon
helmeted face upon it, the sneering face of Gaius Baltar was etched on it. She pulled
the trigger and, in her mind’s eye, blew it out of space.

“No problem,” Kara assured him and then, as an afterthought, asked, “Mind if
I bring Helo? He’s the other pilot besides Sharon that Boxey associates with
being rescued. So having him along will likely help.”

“Be my guest,” said Adama.

“I’m on it.”

“Kara,” said Adama, standing, “thank you. And be careful.”

“Aren’t I always?” she asked with a wry smile.

He didn’t return the smile. “Almost never.”

“Wow,” she said. “I got an ‘almost’.”

“I was being generous.”

In what she had to think was the most admirable display of restraint she’d
ever shown—and, sadly, no one was ever going to know it—Laura Roslin sat at her
desk and watched blood pour from Sarah Porter’s eyes and ears and mouth without
giving the slightest indication that anything was wrong.

Porter was the representative of Gemenon, an extremely hard-nosed and
intelligent dark-skinned woman who had never hesitated to get into Laura’s face
on any topic. Of all the members of the Quorum, she and Roslin had the most
fractious history, going back to when Roslin had denied Porter’s request for
additional water supplies on behalf of her constituency. Porter had retaliated
(or at least that was how Laura had seen it) by backing Tom Zarek as
vice-presidential candidate, but she’d been outmaneuvered when Laura had brought
in Gaius Baltar who had, in turn, coasted to victory.

Since then Laura had wondered whether or not Sarah had, in fact, won out in
the end. It wasn’t as if Baltar was any picnic as vice president. But she kept
those thoughts to herself.

“The Midguardians?” Sarah Porter was making no attempt to mask her sheer disbelief that Laura Roslin was bringing up such a subject.
“They’re clamoring for recognition… and you’re actually thinking of giving
it to them?”

“That might be too drastic a way to put it,” said Laura. Under her desk, she
was jabbing her fingernails into the palm of her hand, endeavoring to keep
herself steady in the face of what she was certain were more delusions.
I am
awake. I am awake and this is not happening,
she kept telling herself, and
it was all she could do not to scream. “More accurate to say that I’m…
thinking about thinking about it. That’s why I wanted to speak to you.”

“Me?” Porter looked amused. “Do you see me as a potential ally, Madame
President?”

Laura wasn’t sure how to take that, plus it required all her effort not to
become ill from the sight of Sarah Porter’s eye slowly seeping out of her head.
Behind her, Sharon Valerii was mouthing, “Sagittarius is bleeding.” Laura forced
a smile that bore far more resemblance to a grimace and said, “Of course it is.”

“Of course what is?” said Porter.

A part of her mind heard the disconnect between what she was saying and what
Porter was hearing. It sounded vaguely familiar to her for some reason, and then
she realized why: It was like having a conversation with Gaius Baltar. He
likewise spoke in a disjointed manner. For one wild moment she wondered if he,
too, was speaking to invisible Cylons that only he could hear, and then
dismissed the notion as just too crazy for words. “Of course… I do,” Laura
corrected herself with effort. “I think, if you look at the issues that we
typically face, you’ll find we’re united on far more things than we disagree
upon.”

She wasn’t wild about the look that Sarah was giving her, as if there was
something that should have been obvious to her that wasn’t. Finally Porter said, “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, Madame President, but
I vouched for you.”

“Vouched…?”

“There is no one in the Quorum more conversant with the Pythian Prophecies
than I am,” said Porter with a clear touch of pride. “No more who is more
familiar with the Sacred Scrolls.”

“Ahhh,” Laura said, suddenly comprehending. “I understand.”

“Do you?”

Laura rubbed her eyes, partly from fatigue, and partly in hopes that when her
vision cleared, Sarah Porter would look normal once more. “You verified that the
Prophecies spoke of a dying leader. You stated that you believed that leader to
be me.” She lowered her hand and tentatively looked up at Sarah. The blood was
gone and, mercifully, so was Sharon Valerii. Laura let out a sigh of relief.

“That’s exactly right,” Porter said stiffly. “The leader whose vision would
send us toward Earth… but who was dying and so would not live to see us
arrive in the promised land.”

“You said it was me, and suddenly I’m cured.”

“Yes.” Porter didn’t sound particularly happy about it.

“What can I say?” asked Laura Roslin with a shrug. “Pardon me for living.”

“Madame President, I staked a good deal of my credibility to the notion that
you were the leader of prophecy,” Porter said, giving her a defiant look and
tilting her chin in a pugnacious manner. “With your miraculous cure, that
credibility has taken a hit. Plus we have not seen satisfactory disclosure over
the manner of your cure. People are asking questions.”

“They can ask all the questions they want, Councilwoman,” said Roslin calmly.
“My cure is a matter of doctor/patient confidentiality. A radical new treatment
for which I agreed to volunteer.”

“A cure that will be made available to others who may be ill?”

“If long-term observation of my recovery indicates that it would be
appropriate, then yes, absolutely,” Laura told her. “But it would be premature
to attempt to duplicate my cure. Anyway… Sarah… that’s not why I
brought you here.”

“A rather clumsy attempt to change the subject,” Porter observed.

“I prefer to think of it as a clumsy attempt to bring us back to the original
subject.”

“The Midguardians.” With the air of someone who not only doesn’t suffer fools
gladly, but would prefer to see them all roasting on a spit, Sarah Porter asked,
“What do you want to know? If I will support their petition to become part of
the Quorum? Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because they are heretics. Because they do not worship the same gods as we.”

“Should that make a difference?” asked Roslin.

“Of course,” said Sarah Porter. “Of course it makes a difference. What are
you suggesting?”

“That perhaps we should consider putting aside religious concerns when it
comes to government. That perhaps they should be two different aspects of life,
not commingled.”

Porter tried to stifle a laugh and failed utterly. “You’re saying there
should be a separation of church and state.”

“It has occurred to me.”

“President Roslin,” said Porter, looking at her with amazement as if seeing
her for the first time, “I knew that you had many ideas others might consider… aggressive. But they were always steeped in tradition. The deviation came
from those people who believed the traditions and writings to be sweeping cautionary tales, as opposed to others such as myself, most of the residents
of Gemenon, and other more spiritual colonies who accept the divine wisdom of
the Prophecies. But no one has suggested simply operating as if religious
beliefs don’t matter.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that at all,” Roslin replied. “You know how deeply
rooted my convictions are. I was simply suggesting that perhaps just because
they’re my beliefs, and your beliefs, doesn’t mean they should guide our
decisions in terms of the rights of others.”

“With all respect, Madame President, that’s absurd. Our very morality stems
from our beliefs and the lessons that the gods have taught us. If we don’t root
our decisions in those beliefs—if we don’t allow the Sacred Scrolls to guide
us—then we have nothing. We might as well be soulless Cylons.” She paused and
then said cautiously, “Certainly you’re not advocating supporting this… this
Midguardian bid for power.”

“I don’t feel as if I know enough about it to advocate it one way or the
other.”

“They are unbelievers,” said Sarah. “What more do you need to know than
that?”

“Well, for starters… I’d like to know about their writings. This ‘Edda'
that one of their leaders discusses. That’s really why I wanted to talk to you;
because you’re so knowledgeable in these matters. Do you know anything about
these writings that were supposedly excluded from the Sacred Scrolls?”